Interview: Berlinde De Bruyckere

Interview conducted by Teresa Bernauer, dramaturge for theatre at Ruhrtriennale on 24 May 2024.

This is the fourth edition of your exhibition series, City of Refuge, having previously presented your work at an exhibition space built on the remnants of a thirteenth century Templar settlement in the south of France, then at the Diocesan Museum in Freising, in the south of Germany, and most recently at the Venice Biennale, at Basilica San Giorgio Maggiore. How does your work stand in relation to the setting here at Ruhrtriennale in the Turbinenhalle? 

I think this is a very interesting question, because as the fourth edition, you will be able to see what it means to have the same topic of the Arcangelo in such different spaces. What is the meaning of the City of Refuge, especially today? It's more important than ever. So many people are on their way, fleeing violence, or they don't have a home anymore. Going back in the history of the Ruhr region, where so early, so many immigrants came to work, hoping to build a better life. All these stories speak of the same disruptive circumstances: being forced to leave your home; to go elsewhere to work and earn your money; far away from family and all that is familiar. You become very aware of what the meaning of a place is, of being with your entourage, the people you care for and who take care of you, live with you. Leaving this entire support system behind- what can this do to you as a human being? 

Especially in these industrial halls. I can imagine that it conjures even more or other imaginations than in a sacred space, like in Venice. 

Absolutely. And we can't compare the Ruhrtriennale with all the other ones. I remember when I came to visit the Turbinenhalle the first time in the context of this project. I had been there before, but I never paid attention to it as a space to make an installation. There were those two green turbine monsters. They are so powerful and the fact that they produce energy is somehow tangible; they radiate power. For me they have the same power as the architecture at San Giorgio Maggiore; it’s so overwhelming you cannot fight it, you have to accept it and see how you can relate to it. 

The song City of Refuge, originally recorded by the Wiseman sextette and later by Nick Cave – to which the title of your work refers – has a biblical connotation. What about that tension between the divine and the profane inspires you? 

Though the song has a strong biblical connotation, it’s also deeply rooted in life, and the dark side of human nature, this is something that transcends time, place and belief. There is this energy of anger, fear and hate – the solution being to run, run, run! This repetition and the way Nick Cave sings this: it's more of a call for action than a song for me. I like to compare the early version of the song, recorded in 1988, with the recent live version I heard in 2022. Something has changed over the years. It seems infused with decades of a life lived, of art made. It's like he was absorbing life, trying to understand, and is now giving something back that comes from his soul and from his belly, and not from his mind anymore. I experienced something similar - When I started to work on the exhibition in Freising, City of Refuge II, I decided to include some works I rediscovered from the end of the eighties, when I had just finished art school. The topic of the angel/the wing was already present in my drawings, collages, and sculptures, in a more abstract way, but the concept was there. 

Dealing with your question about the divine and the profane, I think it has much to do with the way you grow up. The Bible and its stories were part of my education. It's not something I choose to reflect on consciously, but rather something I try to digest and give back, not as a translation or description of a Bible story, but more tapping into its universal value as a representation of the human experience, something that can easily be connected to daily life and today's problems. The topic of the angel was never fully explored back then, but there has been a consistent thread. During the pandemic, this theme resurfaced and expanded. My life, the part that has been lived between the late 80s and now is reflected in these Arcangeli.  

I can imagine. It has something never-ending –

Biblical texts are always very layered and abstract. It’s this abstraction that makes them interesting to me, the mystery also; there is always an element of not being able to grasp what is happening. They are ambiguous and open to so many different interpretations, raising so many questions. But it has everything to do with the fact that we are longing for interpretations. I see a link to our longing for god-like or mysterious figures, with whom to share our thoughts, anger and fears, and the things that we don't understand, such as the mystery of life. Even though these bible texts are so old, many people read them every week in church, and it almost becomes part of their genes. 

I think it's interesting that you choose to revisit the figure of the angel, because within the divine there is so much imagery. Can you tell me more about the materials you use and the blankets we see on the angels? 

The figure of an angel is the most mysterious to me. Other figures in the realm of the divine are less compelling to work with, an image of God for instance would be too abstract. Angels, however, are very human; they are the messengers, the workers in heaven, and in addition, they transcend gender. I think they are easier for us to relate to because they are not male or female. This lack of sexuality allows us to address them as a mysterious yet welcoming creature. Angels evoke positive connotations. We even call someone who does something good an "angel." My angels though, are not easy to look at; they don't have faces and don't immediately appear as traditional angels. I thought about what an angel needs to be an angel—wings, for instance. Mine don't have wings, but there's a promise that they can grow from the back of their shoulders, suggested by a deformation under the cloak, where bones seem to protrude. I didn't want to make it easy by giving them big wings. My angels need to earn your respect. They are dark and intimate, often displayed high up. You can see their feet and their movement, which makes you wonder if they are about to fly or if they have just landed, adding to their mysterious nature. Other than the feet and naked legs – that we recognise as human – the shape is very abstract. The materials of the first Arcangeli are wax and animal hair. The hair was incorporated accidentally when I pulled the silicone mold off of a cow skin, leaving some hair stuck in the mold. In my technique of making wax sculptures, the hair transfers from the silicone to the wax, becoming visible in the final result. I specifically looked for cow skins with glossy black and white hair to use in my sculptures, referencing feathers, birds, and angels. 

What, within that inaccessibility, sombreness of your sculptures inspires hope for you?

I think for me the way the works are made plays a part. Most of my sculptures start from a certain reality. I do the molding on a dead tree, a horse, a human figure, or on skin. It’s a time-consuming and labor-intensive process: starting from an object like a dead tree, bringing it into the studio, doing the molding, experimenting with colours, painting the wax in the silicone mold, assembling the wax pieces, and strengthening them from the inside. This long process from idea to result is one of endless decisions, careful choices, of collaborating with different people. With every step the works gets charged with new energy, new layers of meaning. Though I address tough subjects, I try to steer away from the overtly violent. This is subjective of course, sometimes, silence can seem violent, but I try to make sure there's always another side—one that is beautiful, that asks you to care, to touch, and to feel. The softness of the materials I use, the wax, the blankets, the animal hides, tend to temper the blow. The humanity in my work brings hope. I have a special relationship with beauty. What I find beautiful, most people don't see the same way. For instance, I love flowers when they are decaying because they show their life is temporary and they will perish much sooner than we will. This sign of life is beautiful to me, but others find it more appealing when flowers are in full bloom. My work often focuses on the moment things can stop and die, losing their perceived value. Take the Ruhr area, for example—these huge, beautifully restored halls are now starting points for new creations and energies, but when everything was bombed, there was nothing.

I totally agree with you that feeling the temporality of things, places, and lives is important. What you see is not only a snapshot in time, but what came before and what could come after. 

This idea is very important to me. When I first saw the “green monsters” in Turbinenhalle and was asked to create a new work for that space, I felt intimidated by the space and what was already there. As a sculptor, it's different from making video work, where it might be easier to react to huge ‘sculptures’ already in place. The idea of bringing back City of Refuge and how different it could be, led me to think about constructing a sort of cage around the turbines. The atmosphere I envisioned was reminiscent of when the factory was still operational, with people moving around, having a ladder, a bench, a chair, and other elements. I wanted to bring back these aspects into the picture, not just keep the green monsters as sculptural elements, but to bring insights from its past life. I thought about presenting my work in a sort of darkness, creating a mysterious atmosphere. Imagine entering a loft in the evening with just one spotlight, casting light and shadows on the objects present. This approach would engage the audience differently, guiding them in from the back entrance, descending the stairs, and encountering the first turbine closely, surrounded by a construction of ropes and iron as a sort of fence. The meaning of the fence has evolved—it can create or separate spaces, establish borders, and often has holes where people jump through to get to the other side. The angels, imprisoned within these constructions, offer a new meaning and reference to refuge. Linking it to the concept of a fence, which can be violent or protective. In a foundry in the Swiss city of St. Gallen, my bronze angels were fenced at night to protect them from thieves. So, fences can have positive or negative connotations. Combining these ideas in the Turbinenhalle I think works very well. 

What are your places of refuge? 
I have three main places of refuge. The first is the studio, because it’s a privilege as an artist to have talents to work with. I feel it’s a responsibility to use them meaningfully. Not for profits, but to create work that helps people approach problems or answer questions. The second refuge is nature, especially the forest. When the studio becomes too much, I go into nature to experience the cycle of life, the smell, and the beauty of the trees. The third refuge is silence. Real silence, where there is no noise at all, allows me to quiet my mind, empty out many things, and create the right mental state to continue working.

Considering we are living in a complex and conflict-ridden moment in history, and the motto of this year's festival is Longing for Tomorrow is there a kind of tomorrow that you long for? 

History is repeating itself, and as I get older—I'm nearly 60 now—I reflect on my 35 years in the studio. My work, though not overtly political, often relates to images and stories of the past and present. The field of inspiration ranges from the ancient past through sources like the Bible, art history and mythology, to the distant past and present through sources like newspapers, cinema and performing arts. Always with a focus on what is happening in the world in that specific period and how this relates to the human experience in general. There was a moment of hope when Obama became President of America. It felt fantastic, but then with Trump, we were back to reality sooner than we wanted. This situation made me realise we are not safe. There is so much violence and many elements pushing people to continue wars or start new ones. Now, there’s the war in Ukraine so close to us. Information reaches us immediately these days. When I was working on an artwork that dealt with the genocide in Rwanda 30 years ago, there were few images on the news or in newspapers. Today, everything is on our cell phones and shared everywhere. This avalanche of images and continuous presence of violence makes us very vulnerable. For many young people, it's hard to handle this omnipresent negativity. Many need psychological support just to continue their lives. So, what’s the future, what am I longing for? What you do in Ruhrtriennale is something we should long for: places with history that are rebuilt into beautiful spaces where people are connected again. Different religions and people from all over the world come together, and new creations from different countries are shown for the first time. This reconnects people, even without understanding the words, listening to voices, and seeing how instruments are held, how the music is made. I believe in the energy that comes out. Loving the most abstract things you don’t understand – this makes you open to question your own life and those around you. I think this is beautiful way to deal with the difficulties of our times, by trying to connect.